Intueri
by LemonMeringueTart
Summary: Sequel to Primum non nocere.  Jane and Maura continue the relationship started in Primum non nocere and Maura begins to explore her past as her birth mother enters the picture...
1. Chapter 1

Thank you to everyone who followed my first story and took the time to review it. If you haven't read Primum non nocere, you should. It can be found on this site. Read it first, as this won't make sense if you don't.

Now, onward.

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Walking stiffly down the corridor, I hear a faint noise behind me, audible over the muffled clicks of my heels on the scuffed vinyl floor.

A glance over my shoulder shows nothing out of the ordinary and I chastise myself for being so hyper vigilant. Lately, I have understood how a gazella thomsonni, more commonly known as a Thomson's gazelle, must feel. The most common gazelle to roam the African plains, it is an exceptionally alert creature both to sound and movement. This constant state of hyper vigilance assists the gazelle in its daily fight against its main predators, including cheetahs, leopards, lions, and hyenas.

However, I am not a prey animal being stalked by something hidden in the grass. While hyper vigilance can certainly be helpful in a life or death situation, I have no time for it in my daily life. Work has been increasingly busy, as the quickly approaching holiday season always results in a spiked increase in the number of family-related violence and suicides.

I have also had more than my fair share of motor vehicle versus cyclist related tragedies. The lovely weather of Boston's spring and summer season encourage motorists to leave their cars at home and venture to work on bicycles. However, Boston streets are not designed with bike paths. Biking around the city, especially during rush hour, is quite dangerous. Factor in our typical rainy fall weather, with slippery leaves now clogging the roadways and less than optimal visibility during the evening commute and the results are downright deadly. For the cyclists, that is. Traumatic, but non-life-threatening for the motorist.

Perhaps it is the increase in number of bodies to examine combined with the general fatigue I am feeling due to the extended work hours has resulted me feeling more on edge than usual. Or, it could be the fact that I have had the peculiar notion that someone may be following me.

I'm not sure how else to explain it. I haven't seen some dark figure lurking in the shadows, or received any threats. Still, as I make my way to the elevator, my hand tightens on the grip of my pepper spray hidden in the pocket of my coat.

Jane laughed at me when I told her I applied for a permit to carry the spray, as she could have just given me a bottle with no questions asked. I understand that studies have shown that it is useless in some attacks; and it doesn't necessarily make me feel any safer, but lately I've kept it at the ready religiously whenever I'm alone.

I know Jane wonders why I've been so jumpy lately, and I wish I had an explanation myself. I can't seem to shake the feeling that something is out of the ordinary –it's just a feeling I have had.

Intuition. It's something I never allowed myself to feel. Intuition often defies logic, which never made sense to me. Nothing can defy logic. The notion that something could is contradictory to the definition of logic itself.

Before Jane, I was practically married to logic, metaphorically speaking – of course. However, the more time I spend with her, the more I am fascinated by the way she allows her intuition to play a major role in both her professional and personal life. She is able to hone into her intuition to solve cases quicker and more effectively than other detectives, as well as read my moods and counterbalance them to maintain order in our home.

I have been trying to explore my own intuition. It is not an easy process for me; I tend to overthink things so much that I am left with a snippet of intuition that is most certainly influenced by logic. However, I am making progress.

As I reach the elevator, I catch a glimpse of Dr. Welch in his office across the hall. He bent over his desk, scrawling on what seems like an endless stack of paperwork. He will surely work until darkness falls tonight, and most likely through the weekend. If he was better able to manage his time instead of ogling his new assistant, he's surely would have been able to finish his case load by this evening.

Internally, I chant what I know about intuition as I enter the elevator.

Intuition is used to describe anything that comes to mind quickly, without much reflection. Taken from the Latin word 'intueri', which translates "to look inside or contemplate," intuition is often a belief or thought that we cannot justify. Henceforth, intuition has been the subject of study in psychology, been accredited to innovation in scientific discoveries, as well as a topic of interest in the supernatural.

I hear another noise, this time closer. It sounds like slap of a finely-crafted boot heel hitting the floor.

The hair on the back of my neck prickles. The medical professional inside of my brain explains that it is a natural reaction of the sympathetic nervous system and is triggered an environmental or emotional stressor – the "fight or flight response," so to speak.

Clearly, I am being irrational. I have no logical reason to suspect anyone is actually following me and I am undoubtedly overreacting to hearing a noise in the hallway.

Still, I cannot prevent my hand from tightening around the pepper spray and, much to my horror, I watch myself bring it out of my pocket, flip off the safety switch and am it at the open elevator doors.

No one appears. Sighing in relief, my trembling hand finally submits to my control and securely latches the spray before dropping it back into my pocket.

The soft thud it makes at it hits the bottom of my coat resonates loudly in my ears. I have never felt so embarrassed in my life, and I am glad that no one else observed my foolish actions.

I stand there with the doors open for several seconds, frozen with both embarrassment and relief. It then registers to me that in the reflection of Dr. Welch's office window there is indeed a woman standing in the hallway just outside the elevator doors; out of my range of visibility from inside the elevator car.

Rationally, I know that I should call out to her as ask her if she's getting in. Instead, I hit the "Door Close" button over and over, at first gently, but the elevator doesn't comply. I frantically jam the button until the doors finally lumber shut.

Closing my eyes, I swallow. Exhaling, I am surprised to feel my chest tighten and tears instantly well in my eyes. Taking a deep breath to calm myself, I urge the elevator to reach the third floor, and Jane.

Who is she? From her reflection, I noticed that she's in her mid-to-late 50's and was dressed impeccably. Stylish leather boots, slim-fitting Vera Wang trousers, and a Burberry trench coat a few shades darker than the one I have slung over my arm.

I wasn't able to get a good look at her face, as even in my hyper vigilant state, I was paying more attention to her clothes. Ridiculous, I admit.

Arriving at the third floor, the doors finally open and I'm rewarded with the stale smell of cheap cologne and burned coffee. I stride eagerly to Jane's desk, anxious to see her and regain a sense of calmness and clarity. I distractedly wave hello to a few detectives that greet me as I round the corner to arrive at Jane's spot, just to find it empty.

I glance around and see no sign of her. No jacket haphazardly slung over her chair. No messy papers, random case files, or crumpled up notes littering her desk. No keys left dangling irresponsibly from her locked drawer. The only sign of her is a half-full cup of Dunkin's coffee now sitting cold on her desk. One look at the color confirms my suspicion of why it wasn't finished. Jane takes her regular coffee with two cream and two sugars. This coffee clearly has more cream than she prefers.

Disappointed, I gracefully drop down into her chair and sit primly with my legs folded underneath me and set my bag in my lap. I made the mistake once of putting my new Hermés Birkin purse down on the floor on this level and was rewarded with several unsightly stains as the result. Very different from the cleanliness I demand from the janitorial staff in charge of the morgue.

Minutes tick by and there is still no sign of Jane. I decide to send her a quick text message as I am growing more and antsier to leave for the day and put my foolish near-encounter with the mystery woman behind me.

My phone chimes and I smile when I read Jane's text.

"Friggin meeting dun soon XOXO."

One skill that Jane clearly lacks is the ability to form complete sentences or spell properly when texting.

Bored and still feeling that I'm being overly-attentive to my surroundings, I look for something to count to calm myself. Meaningless counting is one of my many self-soothing exercises.

I count 937 flecks in the laminate surface of Jane's tidy desk before I hear a low voice behind me. It is as warm as a sun-drenched room and I can feel the affection resonating in its low timbres.

"Maur?"

I turn and give her a weak smile. She grins at me and brushes a strand of hair back from my face.

"What's so fascinating about my desk?" Her eyes narrow and I know she knows something is wrong.

Intuition.

Clearing my throat, I give her my best smile. "Nothing." I tell her innocently. "I was just admiring the color of the laminate. I've never actually been able to see it as it's always a mess."

"Ha." She rolls her dark eyes at me. It's amazing to me how well her eyelashes stand out despite her defiance to wearing any kind of eye makeup. "You're hilarious. Hope you enjoyed it, as you won't see it look like this again until the fire marshal's inspection next year." She grins evilly before flopping down the huge stack of papers and folders she holds in her arms onto her desk, almost upsetting the cold coffee. Shrugging off her jacket, she throws it down on top of the last bare spot of the desk before rummaging around in her drawer until she finds a rubber band. She places it in her teeth and pulls her hair back with her long fingers while grumbling about her meeting.

"Pain in the ass meeting kept me late today. Budget cuts, blah blah, milking the system, blah blah, overuse of personal time, blah blah, and typical bullshit. Poor Frost and Korsak are still in there trying to explain why they had $80 in meal expenses in two days. Idiots parked outside of Mike's Pastry and gorged themselves while they were supposed to be investigating that North End murder while I was on my bed rest."

Finally done with her hair, she grins at me. "Any idiot knows that Modern is the only pastry shop that fills each cannoli fresh to order each time. Chefs at Mike's are bums and they always freeze them. Pop won't even go to Mike's anymore; he knows Ma will kill him if he brings home pre-frozen cannoli."

She sounds just like her father, and I can't help but smile as I imagine a small Jane tagging along with Frank through the bustling streets of the North End on a mission to fetch the perfect cannoli.

Jane pulls Frost's chair away from his desk and sits in it backwards, resting her long arms on the seat back. Her eyes study mine. A long tendril of her wavy hair escapes it's confinement and drops down, swaying gently. I focus on it, wondering how anyone's natural hair color can consist of seven distinct shades of brown. Jane obviously has a high concentration of brown eumelanin in addition to red pheomelanin; which is highly unusual, but very beautiful. I love to see how the color of her hair changes with the light in our room. When we first wake up, the early morning light leaves her hair bathed in an amber glow. In the bright blue skies of the autumn afternoons, her hair appears dark – almost black. But it is now – sunset – when I love her hair the most. The pink and purple skies create a rich auburn aurora.

"Whassa matter?" She asks quietly, her hands fidgeting with the ripped vinyl of the seat back. I know she wants to take my hands into hers.

I remain quiet for several seconds, my eyes locked on hers. Can she really read my mind? I've asked this to myself time and time again since we started our relationship. I've never been able to come up with a conclusive answer.

"We need to talk." I tell her softly. "Nothing is actually wrong, I am just concerned about some feelings I've been having and my reactions to them."

I can see confusion in her eyes as I continue. "It has nothing to do with _us_."

She gives me a small smile, and I can tell by the way her body relaxes that she understands.

"C'mon. Let's get out of here. I've had enough of this place for the day." Jane stands up, kicking Frost's chair back to its rightful place.

Then, despite the ever-watchful eyes of the department gossips, Jane does something that I do not expect. She reaches her hand down to help me up, and once I'm standing next to her, places a tender kiss to the top of my head.

I feel my face flush, but Jane takes it all in stride. While the other detectives collectively gasp, Jane slings her jacket under her arm, and wraps an arm around my shoulders as she leads me to the elevators.


	2. Chapter 2

We drive in silence, Jane's hands gripped firmly on the wheel, the tension evident as her scars are a glaring white contrast to her olive skin tone. It is a normal drive home in the aggravating Boston afternoon traffic. Jane insists on driving, even though her tolerance level for anyone who is less than a perfect driver needs some fine tuning.

I rest a supportive hand on her thigh, and the corner of her mouth quirks in my direction. I know she knows that she's ridiculous, but she just can't help herself.

"Almost home." I soothe to her, squeezing her thigh in support. Sometimes, if the day hasn't been too bad, she'll remove one hand from the wheel and lay it entwined with mine. At that point I can easily discern that by the time we get home she will be in a relaxed and bubbly mood. As bubbly as Jane can be, that is.

Tonight, she keeps both hands firmly on the wheel. I continue to rest my hand on her thigh as I envision our evening together.

We will arrive home and I will make dinner while she takes Jo to do her business. Then she will change into a pair of ratty sweatpants and a black tank top. I have found that if I keep the house temperature below 72 degrees, she will hide her perfect shoulders and muscular arms under a sweatshirt.

Therefore, the thermostat is always set at 74. I am a genius, after all.

Complaining that the house is "hot as hell", she will walk into the kitchen barefoot. Even though I am well aware of the high incidence of foot bacteria due to the lack of air flow when kept enclosed in socks and shoes, I will admire her long and athletic feet. She'll leave her hair up in an unkempt ponytail which will show off her long and elegant neck that is just begging to be kissed.

Unable to resist myself, I will stop what I'm doing and kiss her. First, on the lips that hide her wide smile, then I will trail all the way down her neck, pausing only at one shoulder. I find her shoulders to be the most desirable part of her lean form. I love the shape of them – they make her silhouette so regal and commanding. Yet when they are slung over mine while we watch television they are loose and supple. And when she is on top, driving her fingers into me, I cling to them and feel their iron strength. The true beauty of them is in the contrast.

I can say the same for my Jane. After I drag myself away from her and continue our supper, she will get herself a cold beer and sit on the kitchen stool, watching me cook.

She will look happy, relaxed, comfortable, and unbelievable sexy. However, despite her relaxed appearance, she will still have that undercurrent of tension and she will fidget with anything she can get her hands on.

It's usually the label of her beer bottle. She starts the careful dissection of the label by using her thumbnail to scrape off the corner. Then, as delicately as she can, she attempts to peel it off in one large piece. Due to uneven glue distribution, she undoubtedly fails and must make several endeavors to remove the entire label. The end result is small pieces of sticky white paper with glue residue all over the counter, plus many more as the consequence of her flicking them at various objects around my kitchen.

I will continue to prepare dinner while picking up as many pieces as I can. Normally, the subsequent mess would irritate me but Jane seems to have found a way inside and is exempt from my petty annoyances.

After dinner we will read or watch television together, and then take Jo for a walk. It won't be until we are out tonight, hand in hand; walking down the dark streets of the city that I will feel Jane begin to unwind. It is the same every night, other than those few precious evenings when she will begin to relax in the car on the way home.

Perhaps it's the routine of our evening that helps her release the tension from her stressful day, or it's the simple task of walking Jo. Regardless, by the time we return from our walk and climb into bed, Jane is calm.

This is when I love her the most. With Hungry the blue hippo tucked safely under her pillow, she gathers me in her arms and kisses me goodnight. Sometimes the kiss is the fuel to a passionate fire that leaves us both breathless and exhausted, and other times the kiss is almost innocent.

As we drift off to sleep, I rest my head on Jane's chest while she talks to me. My ears greedily absorb every sound she makes – the strength of her heart beat, the whisper of her breath, and the low alto of her voice. Usually she'll start by telling me little things, like that we need paper towels, but as she grows more and more relaxed she'll become more serious. Last night, she told me that when we retire, she wants to learn how to knit. She murmured as she fell asleep that she pictured us as two little old ladies sitting on our porch swing, sharing one big shawl that she knit herself.

This has been our routine for two months now. It's been two months and six days since Jane was shot, and we have crafted a new lifestyle involving the two of us as easily as a spider spins her web. There has been no discussion of the future, and while Jane's apartment is mostly vacant of all of her belongings except for her furniture, she has not mentioned of terminating her lease. I had expected some kind of tension – some struggle over how to arrange the refrigerator, but there hasn't been one. It's as if we've ebbed and flowed into our new routine easily and efficiently. While I have many unanswered questions about our future plans, I am comfortable enough with our current state to allow my questions to remain on the back burner for the time being.

"Whatcha thinkin?" Jane's voice calls me out of my reverie. I see that we're stopped a light not far from home. The crimson light reflects on the wet windshield, and I notice for the first time that it has started to rain.

"You." I respond softly. "How I love being with you." Glancing at Jane, I am overcome by the amount of love radiating from her entire being. She stares at me, half of her face bathed in red and the other half cloaked in darkness. Smiling a slow and lazy smile, her eyes glisten in the low light. She removes one hand from the wheel and uses the back of her hand to gently caress my face.

"I love you." Jane states, her voice almost a whisper.

"I know." I tell her solemnly, turning to kiss her hand. The amount of love radiating from her entire being is almost overwhelming. My chest feels tight with emotion, and I cling desperately to the tiny bit of control that my general uneasy state of being for the past few days hasn't devoured.

This woman would do anything for me. Never in my life have I felt so completely loved.

When I was a seven, my best friend was a neighborhood girl named Stephanie. She was very shy but always willing to be the guinea pig of my childhood medical experiments. I would make "potions" of the ingredients in her refrigerator, have her drink them, and document the results.

It usually ended with her vomiting and me being sent home. Still, I was her only friend and she mine, so we were as inseparable as little girls could be.

One winter afternoon, before I could conduct my latest experiment, her father decided to take us outside to play in the snow. We had a blizzard the day before and I remember the snow being up over his shins. We trudged down the street to an empty parking lot where the plows had made a mountain out of the plowed snow and we proceeded to dig a tunnel through the center.

Once it was almost finished, I decided to crawl in while Stephanie was scrambling over the top. The inside of the tunnel was amazing – I remember lying inside and staring up at the top, amazed at how strong the arch formation was. Then, without warning, the tunnel collapsed in on me.

I remember it being peaceful. I wasn't afraid; surrounded by snow and unable to move it would seem reasonable that I'd panic. Instead, I laid still and enjoyed the utter sanctity of the moment. Blind, deaf, and numb, I was free from my body's needs and wants and could concentrate fully on my mind and what I was thinking. I'm certain I wasn't having exponential thoughts nor figuring out how to solve the world's hunger crises, but I do recall wondering if it was possible to actually live like this – a frozen body with an intact mind. Up to that point, I had always felt invisible. Now, I realized that I truly could be.

I was never a stupid child, and I realized that I didn't emerge soon that I would die. As terrible as it sounds, I didn't care. I felt safe, serene, and calm. I wanted to stay in the cocoon of snow forever.

To say that I was disappointed when her father finally dug me out would be putting it mildly. I kicked and screamed, tried to climb back in, and it took all of his strength to hold me back. It was only then that I cried, not out of fear from the experience, but for inability to return to my frozen world.

He took me in his arms and rocked me, sobbing as he chanted over and over, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." It was then that I felt something I hadn't ever felt before. I had read about it, heard about it, seen other children feel it, and seen it shared between my parents, but I hadn't actually experienced it myself.

Love.

I resisted at first and tried to get out of his embrace. I didn't like the sensation, my chest burned and I felt like I couldn't breathe. I was so used to being overlooked and feeling inconsequential that I was extremely uncomfortable with all the attention he was showering me with.

The three of us trudged silently back to their home. Once we were back inside her father lit a fire and her mother made us each a cup of hot chocolate with extra marshmallows for me because I was "so brave."

Then the most remarkable thing happened. They invited me to stay for dinner. I had never actually eaten a meal with them, as I was always being sent home early due to Stephanie's inability to digest my concoctions.

But tonight was different. The four of us sat around the table and had a conversation while eating dinner. We giggled as her father put breadsticks in either side of his mouth and did an impression of a walrus. Her mother looked at me strangely when I explained that both male and female walruses had tusks that were used for a variety of reasons. She interrupted me to offer us dessert before I could share my knowledge, but I didn't mind when she brought out freshly-baked cookies.

It felt so normal, and I couldn't believe that this was how people lived. I knew that if I were home, I would be eating alone in the kitchen with only one of my books for company. After dinner, the kitchen staff would clear my plates while I finished my homework and put myself to bed. My parents would return from their evening out at some point, but I wouldn't see them until the next morning. As I ate my breakfast alone, my schoolbags packed, they would waltz through the kitchen to wave goodbye to me as they left for work.

I didn't understand it – Stephanie's house was almost as nice as mine, and nearly identical in size. Her parents must have been wealthy too, but they still spent time with her and didn't have a house full of staff like we had. At that moment, I realized that I hated Stephanie. I hated her for having parents who made hot chocolate themselves instead of having a servant do it for them. I hated her for everything she had; as it was everything that I never knew existed, but now it was what I wanted.

When it was finally time to go home, Stephanie's father drove me. He had to practically drag me to the car, and once the car turned down our long driveway, I began to cry. I remember him asking me what the matter was, but I refused to answer him.

I also refused to get out of the car once it came to a stop. I closed my eyes and pretended that I was back inside my snow cocoon where everything was peaceful and perfect, and I was truly alone.

Her father left me sitting comatose in the car and went to get my parents. I heard my father's loud voice as they were walking back to the car and I forced my eyes even tighter shut. My mother was with them, complaining about the snow. I heard Stephanie's father explain what had happened as they reached the car.

"Maura." My father's voice was one of a politician. Gilded gold, he could make something horrible still sound like a national treasure. "Please get out of the vehicle and tell Mr. Montgomery you appreciate him driving you home."

I refused to budge even though I knew my disobedience would cost me later.

"What is wrong with her?" My mother exclaimed, and although my eyes were closed, I envisioned her holding a hand to her chest and playing the part of a concerned parent perfectly.

"I don't know." Stephanie's father sounded exasperated. "She's been just fine."

"Maura." My father stated again and now punctuated ever word. "Get out of the car. Now."

Before I could comply, an arm with a vise-like grip pulled me out of the front seat. I opened my eyes to see those of my mother, filled with contempt, glaring down at me. She continued to hold my arm, and I knew that in the morning it would be peppered with bruises as the result.

"Thank you for taking such good care of our Maura." My mother sighed to him, her wide smile never reaching the coolness of her eyes.

Before she dragged me inside, I looked at Stephanie's father one last time. His eyes met mine, and he gave me a weak smile. Perhaps he realized why I had fought so hard against going home, and perhaps not.

Regardless, I was never invited back to Stephanie's house, and she never came over to mine to play. My disobedience resulted in even less attention from my parents, and when I had my 8th birthday a week later, I spent it alone. Manuela, part of our kitchen staff, made me a vanilla cupcake and because we had no candles in the house, lit the end of a match and stuck it in the frosting. She sang to me, her voice beautiful despite her limited English, and kissed my cheek after I blew it out. She told me I was a good girl, a sweet girl.

Soon, I became attached to her and would follow her all over the house, begging to be shown how to cook and clean. Once my parents caught wind, she was let go.

I was devastated. I promised myself that I would never get attached to anyone, regardless of the circumstances. I have turned to people for companionship and for sexual pleasure, but never for love. As soon as it seems like it's blossoming into more, I abruptly end things.

Jane is the exception.

As the light turns green and my car surges forward, calm overtakes me.

Deftly changing lanes, Jane presses down on the gas pedal and we fly by the rest of the traffic. Her right hand leaves the wheel to grasp mine. It will be a good evening.

My good spirits are quickly dashed. Instead of turning down my street, Jane continues to drive. I glance at her and see the telltale signs of worry etched on her angular face.

"Jane?" I question, unsure of her suddenly anxious demeanor.

"Someone is following us." She grits, her chocolate eyes flicking from the road ahead to the rearview mirror. "Since the station there's been a silver jaguar with one female passenger up my ass."

I gasp, and her eyes glance quizzically at mine.

"I thought it was coincidence, but when I signaled to turn to go home, so did she. She's tailed us since we left work."

"I think I know who it is." I respond slowly, all of the pieces finally clicking into place. It makes perfect sense. The woman in the morgue has impeccable fashion sense a luxury car and the inability to want to ride the elevator with me. I know who it is.

"Care to fill me in?" Jane asks, clearly exasperated.

"I think it's my real mother."


	3. Chapter 3

Wow. Thank you to those who have reviewed...it makes me write...faster...

:)

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I don't have to look at Jane's face to see her reaction.

"Okkayyyy…" she drawls in response as she continues to drive. "Care to fill me in?"

I sigh as I glance behind me. The Jaguar is a beautiful vehicle, perfectly detailed and in pristine condition. It's a shame that it's raining. However, if it's parked in a heated garage tonight, there should be no resulting water residue.

"It's what I wanted to speak with you about. I've felt as if someone may be following me recently, but have no conclusive proof. I haven't seen anyone or received any threats. Getting in the elevator this afternoon, I heard someone behind me. I saw a woman's reflection and she was dressed like me. I think it's my mother."

I feel Jane's anger and slowly close my eyes, knowing what is coming.

"You think you're being stalked and chose not to tell me about it?" Jane doesn't raise her voice because she doesn't need to. I fully understand that I have been lax in my responsibility to communicate my concerns with her. She huffs, her hands tight on the wheel. "That's nice, Maura. Really nice."

I understand her disappointment; nonetheless, I have no answer for her. I should have said something to her, but I felt foolish. Even if we weren't being followed tonight and fell into our usual routine once we were home I still hadn't a clue of how to broach my feelings to her. What I have been feeling is so unlike me and I am not comfortable talking about it. Obviously, as I have been researching every possible study on human intuition in order to provide her with facts rather than just speak with emotion.

Sighing, I rub my temples briefly. I feel foolish, small, and unworthy of her affection. I don't know what to say other than that I'm sorry.

_So, try that. _Deciding to go with my intuition, I muster up the energy I have left.

"I'm sorry."

Jane glances at me, her eyes troubled and filled with compassion. She remains silent and I know I'm forgiven, for now.

The glare from the road combined with the tinted windshield make it impossible to see the woman's face. However, I know it is her. I close my eyes briefly, and try to memorize this feeling. This is how intuition should feel. There is no logical reason that my birth mother, who has had plenty of opportunity to find me my entire life, is suddenly stalking me when a simple letter or phone call would suffice.

My entire life I have wondered who she was, and what she was like. Knowing my birth parents were located in Boston absolutely influenced my decision to continue my career here rather than take a more prestigious position at a larger city where I would have had more funding and better research opportunities. The very second I arrived in Boston I started to study every face I saw walk down the street, wondering if it was them. After finding my sealed birth records, and coming to a dead end in my search, I easily could have moved on to another location.

However, living here, I felt close to them. I could wander aimlessly through the Public Gardens and imagine they shared their first date among the swan boats while laughing at the annoying tourists. I could pretend they frequented the same restaurants that I did, and imagined bumping into them someday while waiting for my order. Perhaps we'd ordered the same thing, even.

Meeting my real father was a cold dose of reality. My real parents were not some older couple, still together and still longing for the little girl they'd have to give up. Once I learned who my father was, I suddenly stopped pretending. I would have left Boston, and all my imaginary memories behind, if it weren't for Jane. She loves it here, and this is her home. And I have learned to love it here also, because she does.

"Turn around and drive home." I command her, suddenly irritated. "I'm not driving around all night and running from anyone. Jo needs to go out, and I have to feed Bass." The red hot wash of anger coursing through my veins surprises me. She has no right to do this to me, to play with my emotions like this.

"Maur." Jane states, glancing at me briefly. "I'm not crazy about the idea of leading some strange woman directly to our doorstep."

"She's not some strange woman." I snap. "She's my birth mother."

"You don't know that." Jane continues. "What if she's not?"

"She is." I argue as Jane abruptly pulls into a gas station parking lot. "What are you doing?"

"Getting gas." Her dark eyes flick to the road just in time to see the Jaguar signaling to turn into the station. She can't make the turn due to the oncoming traffic. "Massholes." Jane breathes, and despite my tremulous anger, I quirk a smile.

Jane turns to me and softens her body language. She lowers her chin and with her eyes fixated on mine, is exhibiting classic comforting techniques. "Maura." Her eyes flick to the Jaguar, still waiting for an opportunity to turn. "Stay in the car, okay? Promise me."

"No."

"Maura." She groans, her jaw clenched. "Please." Her eyes plead and while I understand her concern and appreciate her protective nature, I am not giving in to her demands.

"No." I tell her again. The Jaguar finally is able to make the turn, and pulls into the lot behind us. Hand on her hip, Jane gets out and struts up to the vehicle.

"Stay in the car." She yells to me as I unbuckle my seatbelt and throw open my door. Jane reaches the driver's side of the Jaguar first and just as she is about to rap on the window, it abruptly pulls away. "Hey – stop – dammit!" Jane's voice seems distant in my ear as I am too focused on the woman in the car as it glides by me.

For a brief moment, too brief, her eyes meet mine and my intuition is confirmed.

This woman is my mother. Her eyes, nearly identical to mine, linger on my face before she drives away.

"Wait." I tell her as I run after her. "Please wait!" I reach the vehicle just as it is about to pull out of the parking lot and am able to bang on the back window. "Wait!" I plead, but she is gone as the vehicle finds a gap in the traffic and pulls effortlessly onto the road, speeding away.

The rain is cold on my face and hands as I stand there, staring at the busy street, hoping that she will return. I barely feel Jane approach me from behind and wrap her long arms around me, holding me securely.

"It's her." I stammer.

"I know." Jane breathes in my ear.

I try to rationalize her sudden appearance and even faster disappearance. Perhaps she has social anxiety disorder and is fearful to approach me. Or, she could be uncertain of my reaction to her and not want a public confrontation, which is why she was following me home. She could be afraid of her own personal safety being seen with me, as my real father mentioned he needed to keep her protected.

Regardless of the circumstances, I feel rejected. Unfortunately, it's a feeling I am all too familiar with. My childhood was filled with rejection; holidays spent alone in my room, overlooked A+ report cards, eating lunch alone in the cafeteria, forgotten student award nights, and countless other memories that have tormented me my entire life. Watching her car drive away causes my last shred of dignity, the "pride dam" so to speak to falter and allow them memories to come gushing up to the surface to taunt my consciousness. I stand in the rain and allow my tears to fall freely.


	4. Chapter 4

"C'mon." Jane tugs at my sleeve, but I refuse to budge. What if my mother comes back? She might realize what a mistake she made and return, foolishly, to apologize.

"Maura, you're going to catch a chill and get sick. C'mon, get in the car. It's freezing out here." She tugs at my sleeve again and I angrily jerk it away.

"It's common knowledge that one doesn't get sick from being out in the rain or snow. The only result of a chill is a lowered body temperature, which can decrease the productivity of one's immune system. Anytime an immune system is lowered there is an increased chance of bacteria multiplying." My words come out far more clipped than I planned.

"Okay, well, um I think that's what I said. But humor me and get in the car." Jane tugs at my sleeve a third time, and it is my undoing. My eyes are furious as I whirl around to face her.

"Don't you dare tell me what to do." I spit at her. I feel my face flush and the adrenaline rush, spent from my frantic car chase, now returns full force. I suddenly decide that all of this is Jane's fault.

Her dark eyes widen in surprise, and she removes her hand from the sleeve of my coat. Shock registering on her features, she opens her mouth to respond, but no sound comes out.

"You scared her off. You went storming up to her car, basically pulled your weapon on her, and made her leave. She wanted to talk to me. She's been following me for weeks and just now had the courage to approach me. And you ruined it with your overprotective bullshit!" I am screaming at the woman I love.

I have never heard myself talk to anyone like this, and am instantly ashamed. However, my anger overrides any ability to think reasonably.

"I was trying to keep you safe!" Jane squares her shoulders and stands up against me. I wouldn't expect any less of her; she is not one to look for confrontation, but the last person to back down when it finds her. "You suddenly tell me that you think you're being followed for _weeks_," she grits out, her dark eyes dancing with anger, "and it may be your birth mother." Putting her hands on her hips, she takes a step closer, using her height advantage to hover over me.

"Your father's in the mob. Your brother was just murdered. All of a sudden your mother makes an appearance after stalking you for weeks, and I'm supposed to, what, Maura? Sit in the fucking car twiddling my thumbs and listen to the radio while you get kidnapped or killed? How do you know she didn't have someone in her back seat with a gun trained on her, ordering her to follow you? Did you even think of that?"

I have seen Jane exhibit every possible emotion over our combined friendship and romantic involvement. The images fly through my head as we stand here, screaming at each other in the rain. When she is proud because she's solved a case or given me an enjoyable orgasm, she tilts her chin up and to the left and sports a thin-lipped half smile. Her happiness is exuded in twinkling eyes and a loud guffaw laugh. When she is tired, hungry, or cranky, her words come in short barks and she chews on the corner of her mouth. Her anxiety is shown through fidgeting, downcast chin, and the refusal to make eye contact. Her anger is powerful and rarely seen, as the intensity of it brewing is usually enough to make the person responsible for summoning it back off. I know her well enough to understand if I keep attempting to argue with her it will result in something terrible, something that I may never be able to fix.

Closing my eyes, I feel the cold autumn rain seep through my expensive, but clearly not waterproof, trench coat and soak my Chanel dress beneath. My feet, clad today in my favorite Cesare Paciotti brown suede pumps, are soaked from standing in a puddle of rain water mixed with runoff from the gas station. My hair is plastered to my face, my makeup surely ruined, and I realize that I must look atrocious. Looking the way I do, it's not a shock why my mother didn't want to stop and talk to me. Additionally, I would not be surprised if Jane decided to move on and find someone better suited for her, someone who wouldn't take their anger and frustration out on her.

I know she was trying to protect me, and she has a valid point. The circumstances surrounding my mother are mysterious, and one of the things I admire most about Jane is her desire to keep everyone safe.

And now I've ruined everything. My mother, suddenly found is now lost again. Jane will never forgive me. I have hurt her. I will be alone.

Fresh tears fall, beckoned by my logic chain, and I do nothing to stop them. Placing my hands over my face, the tears turn to sobs and before I know it, my entire body is wracked with grief.

I know by the time I open my eyes again, Jane will be gone. She will remove all of her belongings from my house, take Jo, and retreat to her own apartment. We will pass each other at work offering polite nods, and she will not be surprised when I give notice that I will be leaving my position.

Mentally, I tick off a long list of things to do in my head. This is my survival mechanism, and by focusing on the tasks at hand I will eventually be successful in forgetting about all of this.

_You will never forget Jane._ My intuition speaks loudly in my mind, but my remaining small snippet of personal strength triumphs and is successful in quieting it, at least for the moment. I will have to put my house on the market. Stock up on organic fruit for Bass in case there isn't a Whole Foods close to where I will be living. Change the address on my rewards card.

A dozen or so other tasks fly through my head before I am enveloped in a strong embrace. I push her away, determined to continue along my path of self-destruction because it is the only route I know. She is so much stronger than me – every push against her is met with her resistance and determination to cling to me tighter.

"I love you." Jane breathes in my ear and I beat against her with my fists.

She wraps her long arms around my back and pulls me flush to her. Her heart pounding in her chest is louder than the rain and the blaring horns of the traffic.

"I love you." She tells me again, yet I still resist, clawing at her and fighting with my last reserve of strength. Practically holding me up, Jane doesn't release her grip and stands strong against my assault.

"Maura." I hear her say my name softly, her voice peppering my face like the rain. "Maauuuurrra." She drawls, and the languid calmness of her begins to percolate through my stone façade. She must know she's getting through to me as she continues her vise grip around my back and continues to murmur in my ear.

"Maura, I love you." She breathes, tickling the hair on my dampened neck. "You're going to be okay."

Finally, I crumble. Tension leaves my body like the release of a bowstring. Weightless in Jane's arms, I collapse, knowing she will not let me fall.

Somehow making it back to the car, Jane helps me into my seat. I sit in shock, amazed that I could care less about the water running off of me and onto the leather seats and interior. Jane gets in and grabs a piece of paper and a pen from the center console and jots something down.

My mother's license plate number.

Her eyes meet mine. I expect to see shock or revulsion at my appearance, but only kindness and compassion is seen in her direct gaze.

I fold my hands in my lap. "I must look horrendous."

"Nah." Jane responds, smiling. "I was thinking more like sexy."

I exhale sharply in disbelief. "Sexy?"

"Hell yeah." She states, her smile growing to reveal her perfect teeth. "I've seen you in the shower. This is the same, except you're wearing clothes."

My face flushes and I feel the beginning of a smile about to appear. I push it away. It's too soon.

Jane intuitively sobers her expression. She holds up the slip of paper, the corner of it wet from the transfer of the water from her skin. "I'm going to put this here." Slipping it securely in the visor, her eyes are intense. "If you want me to do anything with it, give it back to me."

I fully understand what she means. If I ask, Jane will play her role as detective. But only if I ask. If I crumple the paper up and throw it away, Jane will never speak of this again. I have full control. If I give her the paper, she will run the plate and investigate everything she finds. She will contact my father and pressure him for information. She will involve herself 100% and not rest until she finds my mother and presents her to me, most likely on a silver platter.

Is that what I want? Do I want my mother tracked down and trapped? I don't have an answer at this time.

"Thank you." I am speaking only of her getting the license plate, but there is so much more meaning behind it. I wish I had to courage to tell her that I am thanking her for loving me, for not leaving me, and for treating me with such gentleness. I can't form the words to tell her how I feel, and my logic is lost to me at this time. I don't even have facts or statistics to share.

"You're welcome." Jane responds quietly.

"Jane?" I give her a fleeting glance. "You really love me?" I ask, doubtfully. My voice is one of a child who is inquiring about monsters under their bed. I guess we all have our monsters lurking in the shadows, ready to pounce when we least expect it.

"I love you." She states and the honesty of her statement finally sinks home. "And I'm going to keep saying it until you believe it."

"Even though I'm broken?" I feel so broken inside, the worst kind of broken.

Once, I had a porcelain doll that was purchased for me as a collector's item. I was allowed to look at her as she stood posed on my dresser, complete with perfect Scarlett O'Hara ringlets and a purple velvet dress, but I wasn't allowed to touch her or play with her.

I used to stare at her for hours, my fingers itching to caress the softness of her dress and move her jointed arms and legs. Finally, I couldn't resist. In my haste to get her from my dresser she fell from her stand and broke one of her porcelain hands.

I was mortified. However, always an inventive child, I was able to mix a diluted solution of Elmer's glue and water and glue her hand back on. All that was visible was a faint crack around her wrist, and I strategically placed that hand hidden in the ruffles of her dress.

Confident in my ability to play with her and fix her if anything went wrong, I overestimated the strength of my repair. I picked her up by her injury one day, and her tiny, perfect, porcelain hand fell off in mine.

No matter what I tried, I could never fix her hand correctly again. "Double broken." One of our cleaning staff told me when I went to him for help, shaking his head sadly. "No good. Double broken."

I am double broken.

She chuckles. "You're not broken. You're the strongest soul I've ever known."

"I don't feel strong."

"I know you don't. But you are."

We sit in the car, each lost in our own thoughts. I don't know what will happen from here, and I don't know if I will ever see my mother again. As much as that thought is agonizing, the loss of her is nothing compared to the idea of losing Jane. I am filled with a strange mixture of devastation and relief.

"Wanna go home?" She asks, her voice a low rumble against the rain pounding outside.

I nod.

I do.


	5. Chapter 5

As I write and post this, I have a very brave gentleman shoveling the snow from my roof to avoid a collapse. While this is not the most relaxing environment in which to write, I must assure you that if the roof comes down on top of me, my BFF fanfic buddy will be finishing this story for me. I told her to make sure Maura lives out her dream of becoming a professional rodeo clown.

Thank you all for continuing to read and review. Keep those reviews coming...they make me very happy. I also promise to respond to every last one. That is, unless the roof caves in while I'm sitting here in my little chair. Gotta love Boston winters.

Happy reading.

* * *

There are 206 bones in the human body, and of those bones, 22 are found in the skull. Each human has eight cranial bones which decide the size and shape of the head. The fourteen facial bones create unique facial features. Due to the overwhelming amount of genetic combination possibilities, science cannot predict with complete accuracy that offspring will resemble one or both parents. However, it's generally assumed each offspring will have some physical resemblance to one of their parents, or another family member.

I look like her. The brief glimpse as she drove by was enough to accept the fact, both logically and with my newfound intuition, that this woman is my birth mother.

I am sitting at my vanity, staring at myself in the mirror and studying every angle of my face; every expression I make. Fresh from the shower, my damp hair is down around my shoulders. Free from makeup and all other styling products, I look into the mirror and simply see myself.

Jane drove home and ushered me into the shower, carefully testing to ensure the water was warm but not scalding hot. Just like I like it. I stood under the pulsing water, letting the trials of the day wash down the drain. As soon as I felt vaguely human, I stepped out to find a steaming cup of tea waiting for me.

The woman is a saint.

Noises from the kitchen cause me to avert my gaze, causing me to see my face from another angle. Jane is trying to prepare dinner for us, and I can hear her low mutterings in the otherwise silent house. I have always had exceptional hearing. I wonder if that is a trait I also share with my mother?

A study done in the mid 1900's studied human facial expressions are linked genetically. Subjects from the same families were individually examined by scientists who were not told which family the subject matters were part of. It was quickly concluded that the emotions of anger, sadness, and concentration observed on the faces of the individual subject matters made it quite easy to discern who belonged in each family. With an 80% accuracy percentage, the scientists established that individual expressions are not only learned, but inherited.

I can't seem to get my body temperature to return to normal. Wrapped in my warmest pajamas and a thick robe, my body is filled with a persistent chill.

Raising a trembling hand, I watch myself trace the outline of my eyebrow and the outer ridge of my cheek. This is where I resemble her the most. I inherited her brow line, heart-shaped face, and angular nose.

I don't know what color her eyes are. This upsets me.

Melanin content determines eye pigment, and variations in pigment color are due to the amount of melanin found in the iris stroma. The more dense the cells, the more light absorbed by the pigment.

I've always had people comment about the unusual color of my eyes. The hazel with green and gold tones my eyes feature are due to the elastic scattering of light that occurs when light travels through transparent solids and liquids, also known as Rayleigh Scattering.

Both of my adopted parents had blue eyes. Although I knew from an early age that I was adopted, it wasn't something I advertised in school. I was so isolated enough, I didn't want to advertise anything that would result in any more teasing than I already received on a daily basis for always keeping to myself.

However, one afternoon in middle school Biology class, our teacher taught us about human eye genetics, and explained the difference between dominant and recessive genes. We were taught that two blue-eyed parents could only produce a blue-eyed child.

Given a group exercise, each group was responsible for making a genetic chart of our eye color, our parents, and our siblings. I was in a group with three other girls, and became very jealous when they chatted with each other while they filled out their charts. They talked so easily about their families, their brothers and sisters, and some of them even knew their ancestral history.

I filled out my chart silently, red hot embarrassment causing my cheeks to flush. None of the other girls in my group knew my parents and it would have been so easy to list one of their eye colors as brown. This would explain my hazel eyes without causing me any discomfort. My hand waved indecisively above the paper as I contemplated the cause and effects of telling the truth and having to explain that I was adopted, or suffering through the guilt of knowing I lied.

I couldn't finish filling out my chart. I couldn't lie, especially on a school assignment. I had big plans about what to do with my life, and the last thing I wanted to be dug out of my past was that I lied on a 7th grade Biology exercise.

My head ducked, I heard the whispers of the other girls in my group.

"She doesn't know her mom's eye color!" The raven-haired Samantha Torres taunted, motioning to my incomplete chart. She was a rather unlikable girl, always sporting a disdainful attitude and a sharp tongue. Of course, this resulted in her having a large amount of followers, and I had the unfortunate luck of being in a group with two of them.

Her cohorts giggled. Three against one. I was afraid to raise my head, and felt extremely uncomfortable. I just sat there as they made fun of me, being as cruel as girls can be. I began to feel worse and worse about myself, and contemplated feigning illness in order to be excused from class. Remembering our lesson a few weeks back about viruses and harmful bacteria, I began to concoct a list of symptoms in my head, something that would get me immediately excused from school at least for today, if not forever.

The thought of that made me angry. I loved school. I loved everything about learning and read everything I could get my hands on. Instead of after school activities and sports with the other children, I chose to hole myself up in the library or my room and find comfort in books and the logic they contained. I had already read several other, more advanced, Biology books and learned about more advanced genetic combinations. Our teacher hadn't even mentioned those yet.

The knowledge I possessed suddenly gave me the courage to put Samantha and her followers in their place. I raised my head and gave the three of them a wide smile. Standing up, I cleared my throat. Speaking in a confident tone, I explained to the class that this exercise was pointless, as there were several mutations linked with human eye color resulting in variances from the simple dominant vs. recessive argument. When I further explained about recombinant DNA fixing these mutations in some instances, my teacher (who did not look amused) asked me to sit down and be quiet.

I refused, and continued explaining how it was also possible to get brown eyes from blue-eyed parents if something in the environment has affected the eye color gene. I went on to cite several well-documented cases before I was asked by my teacher to go to the principal's office.

As I gathered my things, I heard Samantha whisper to her friends that I was "some kind of genius." She sounded surprised and envious, and I realized that the best way to combat with those who made fun of me was by making them feel as if they had inferior intelligence.

It was the first, and only, time that I was sent to the principal's office. Thinking more about my newfound theory as I sat in one of the comfortable chairs, I realized that I enjoyed myself much more than I should have. Nevertheless, I felt that my intelligence was a tool that I should use to my advantage; much like a beautiful girl uses her looks to increase her popularity. And, relying on logic enabled me to distance myself from anything linked with my internal emotions. For me, it was a turning point during my critical social developmental period.

A muffled thump, surprised yip, and a tense "son of a bitch" break me from my reverie. I tilt my head up to the side, listening for signs of trouble, but the noises cease. Jo must be underfoot in the kitchen again.

"Um, dinner?" Jane calls, her normally confident voice wavering. "At least I think it's ready." Another loud clang resonates in the silent house as I smile at my reflection in the gilded mirror.

"Smells good." Jane mutters, and I hear a tell-tale slurp as she tastes her concoction, followed by a satisfied "mm!"

"C'mon Maur." She requests excitedly. I make my way to the kitchen, leaving behind my – and my mother's – reflection.


	6. Chapter 6

Well, we managed to avoid a roof collapse but were rewarded instead with flooding from all the melting snow. What a hell of a weekend. The good news is that I'm here, alive and well, and intent on finishing my own damn story.

The better news is that after my anxiety-filled-super-crappy weekend, I've decided to take a break from the anxiety-filled-super-crappy stuff that Maura has had to deal with lately and give the poor gal a break for once so she can enjoy life.

* * *

I awaken, languorous and slow, to a symphony of silence. As my eyes adjust to the morning light, I see that last night's shower has carried over to this morning and the Boston skies are dreary and grey. As the rain patters inaudibly on the thick, double-paned windows of our bedroom I sigh contentedly, determined to stay in this exact position for as long as possible. I am on my back, tucked up against Jane as she slumbers in her usual position; lying on her right side with her right arm curled under her pillow.

Her long, olive-tinted, left arm is slung over my stomach as she sleeps peacefully. Her dark hair is askew and flutters gently each time she exhales. Even in sleep I can feel the undercurrent of energy she possesses, and I know that the slightest movement on my part could cause her to jerk suddenly awake.

Remaining motionless, I enjoy the comforting presence of Jane on one side and Jo Friday on the other, tucked gently into my hip. My bed used to be so spacious before they staked their respective claims. I have always moved quite a bit in my sleep, but nowadays the two of them keep me passively tucked into my allotted space.

_Silence is a true friend who never betrays._ The Confucius quote enters my mind gently and hovers around, like a dandelion seed blowing in the breeze. It's not often that I wake before Jane; her restless nature usually will not allow her to sleep in on the weekends. As quiet as she tries to be, I am usually woken up by some unfortunate noise such as her dropping something or tripping over Bass.

Not this morning. A glance at the clock tells me its 8:37am. Jo, not a fan of the rain, shows no signs of wanting to be let out and we have nowhere that we have to be. No Rizzoli family dinner tomorrow night, as Jane's parents are out of town visiting Frank's brother. Frankie is working a double this afternoon through tomorrow so he won't be popping over. Frost and Korsak know better than to show up unannounced, and neither Jane nor I really have any other friends.

No one to disturb us and nothing pertinent to do. Heavenly.

Of course, my birth mother haunted my dreams last night, and if I am not careful, the incident of yesterday will continue to nag at the back of my mind all weekend. I can easily imagine myself tormented over the events that transpired and allowing it to consume me. Jane will spend the weekend trying to make me feel better, I'll be quite perturbed about all of the unknowns, and the house will be riddled with tension due to my personal struggle of what to do next.

I sigh quietly. I have no energy for any of this. Is it possible to give myself a weekend off and table all thoughts, feelings, and emotions related to my birth mother's appearance and deal with it on Monday? The pre-Jane Maura would not have been able to resist distressing herself over and over until every last fact was dissected and put primly away. However, the post-Jane Maura wants nothing more than to lie in bed with her beautiful girlfriend all weekend and not think much about anything.

A wide smile graces my face as I contemplate a much-needed relaxing weekend for my detective and myself. We could throw all sensibilities aside and order each meal in, rent a ton of movies from On Demand, and never get out of our pajamas. We don't even have to walk Jo, as the fence company put the final "terrier-proofing" touches on the fence a few days ago so Jo can use the back yard for her duties.

Perhaps I can even talk Jane into using that little surprise that was waiting for us Thursday when we arrived home from work. I'll never forget seeing her face when I showed her the object still in its plastic packaging – it was comical, to say the least. With raised eyebrows and wide eyes, she glanced from the silicone toy to my face and back to the toy again. "Uh, you want me to do what with this, exactly?" She murmured, wearing an unreadable expression.

I pulled her close to me, and whispered in her ear exactly what I wanted her to do with it. She gulped in response, pulled me to the bedroom, and we enjoyed each other's company for several hours while the forgotten toy sat unopened.

"Mmm." Jane mumbles adorably in her sleep. "Maura sexy thoughts." I wonder how it's possible that she can read my mind. The more time we spend together, the more I question her psychic ability. There is no possible way she can know what I'm thinking about at this moment, especially where she is asleep. The only rational explanation is that her body is so finely in-tuned with my own that she subconsciously can sense my arousal due to the fantastic memories I'm indulging myself with and is reacting accordingly. As far as I know, there has never been a study on this subject matter, but there certainly should be. It's fascinating.

However, further research should most certainly be done. Quietly, I place my left hand firmly around Jane's arm that is resting on my stomach to hold her in place, while my right hand trails across my thigh and starts to softly touch myself. My lovely memories of Jane's talented fingers and tongue have resulted in an almost painful state of arousal. Resisting the urge to release my tension, I stall my hand and wait for a response from Jane.

Nothing. Her breathing pattern doesn't change, and her weightless body remains motionless.

Interesting. I continue my motions gently, biting the inside of my lip to prevent my breathing from becoming ragged. My touch sends sparks throughout my entire body but I pride myself on remaining completely stationary as if nothing were happening.

Jane hitches her breath and her arm tenses against my stomach, pulling me even closer to her. She stretches indolently but remains in her exact sleeping position. Her breathing, however, continues to be uneven and her lips begin to twitch.

It's working.

Slowing my hand, I doggedly resist the urge to finish the experiment before I'm able to document each reaction from my sleeping detective. As I lightly trace myself, I can't control my full body shudder. I glance at Jane, concerned that this will have woken her, and am met with a pair of incredibly dark and exquisitely aroused eyes.

_Thank god she's a leftie. _That is the first thought that enters my mind as she slides the hand that was previously resting on my stomach down to my wetness, where it lingers for a split second before plunging its fingers into me.

My reply is a whimper. I have broken the silence of the morning but in this moment, I could care less. My now-useless hands reach for her, and one tangles itself in her hair as she settles on top of me and the other twists in her tank top, holding her in place.

Using a long and shapely thigh to encourage my legs to spread wider, she finds a greater depth inside of me and sets an intense rhythm. It is clearly her intent to culminate this quickly, and I have no complaints. I feel as if I've been waiting for her to touch me like this forever, and I am a willing passenger.

I find the sweet silence I have been seeking within myself my climax approaches and am fascinated by the hazy gleam in Jane's eyes. She makes no sound other than her panting exhales, and her half smile and flickering upper lip are conclusive proof that she is enjoying herself. As my orgasm overtakes me, she quiets my moans by kissing me thoroughly. Perhaps she is enjoying the soundlessness as much as I.

Clinging to her frantically, I don't allow her to move once the aftershocks have worn off. She complies, sighing contentedly as she settles her weight fully onto mine. I feel the prickle of tears fill my eyes, and wonder what I've done to deserve such a loving soul such as hers. Just as the shadows of self-doubt begin their invasion, I hear my lover's voice rumble in my ear.

"Maur, if this is how you plan on waking me up every morning, I promise to start sleeping in."

I laugh so loudly that my doubts and fears scatter into the darkness of my mind. I am fully aware that Jane's light keeps them at bay, and as I continue my desperate hold on her I am once more grateful.


	7. Chapter 7

Frustrated, I shut my laptop screen and wince as I realize my motion was more violent than intended. I can't even shop without becoming distracted today, not to mention the caseload sitting on my desk untouched since this morning.

The white piece of paper sitting on my desk is taunting me, and I glance at it for the tenth time in thirty seconds, even though I memorized the seven character string hours ago.

After a successful weekend of delaying the inevitable decision regarding my birth mother, I have spent a completely unsuccessful workday trying to decide what to do.

_There are two distinct choices, Maura._ I tell myself, knowing I need to make the decision of whether I should pursue this or let it go. Those are the only two options, and I'm intelligent enough to know that spinning my wheels, so to speak, on anything else related to my mother is nothing more than a waste of time at this moment. You can't put the cart before the horse, and I need to make my decision of if I am going to ask Jane to find her before I obsess over every detail of our first meeting.

My head is riddled with more to think about than I thought possible. I don't know what to do.

I've always prided myself on my ability to separate emotion from logic. I've always imagined my brain having many compartments where I can store memories, feelings, and facts. Each compartment clearly labeled, it's quite simple for me to extract the desired data or emotional response and react accordingly.

Some of the compartments are locked with a secure padlock, and my thoughtfulness has resulted in the misplacement of the key. For example, the memory of overhearing my adopted parents talk about regretting my adoption is securely contained in one of those compartments. Unfortunately, because I do not have the key, I cannot access it, therefore it cannot be remembered, recovered, or spoken about.

I am not a stupid person. I clearly understand that my vivid imagery is a defense mechanism that is protecting me from reliving anything too damaging or upsetting.

_Why now?_ I ask myself, uncertain as to why this system is not working for me at such a crucial time. Why can I not carefully dissect each emotion, label it, and put it away in my "birth mother" compartment? It would be so easy to make a rational and intelligent decision once my feelings are taken out of the picture, but I cannot bring myself to do it.

Perhaps it's because I'm afraid. I'm afraid of the type of person she is, and I'm afraid of what I'll find. Admitting my fear is almost as bad as the feeling of fear itself. The fear seemed to seep into my consciousness this morning when I began to think about my options. The "what-ifs" which attach themselves to fear arrived, and before I had known it, took up residence and overwhelmed my beloved facts and logic.

Footsteps in the hall shake me out of my never-ending circular logic stream. I tilt my head, hopeful that they belong to Jane, and smile in profound relief when I realize that they do.

My "Jane" labeled compartment opens in my mind, and I am rewarded with an instant flood of everything that she is. The smell of gun oil and lilacs, the taste of coffee and vanilla, the low alto sound of her voice, the touch of skin as smooth the quantum stabilized atom mirror, and the pleasing visual of her entire being. Perfection in human form or at least as close to perfection that is humanly possible. And I'm certain of it, as I've done the measurements.

"Hi." I greet her, my tone a mixture of exhaustion, frustration, and relief.

"How ya holding up?" She intones with a concerned look on her face. There is also a touch of something else, stiffness in her posture that I am unfamiliar with.

She is dressed impeccably today, except for the ridiculously unfashionable shoes she insists on wearing. I've tried to reason with her many times about the virtues of low heels, but she is convinced she will not be able to run safely in them. One evening, a rerun of X-Files was on and I pointed out Agent Scully's fashionable pumps and how they did not impede her mobility. Jane rolled her eyes and argued that it was just a TV show, therefore not even close to reality.

Still, despite her lovely appearance, I sense a wariness lurking beneath the surface, as if there is something she doesn't want to discuss.

"Stop staring at me like that." Jane groans, a faint blush appearing on her neck. "I hate it."

"What aren't you telling me?" I can't help but question. If I continue, she'll start to fidget and fling her hands around. It's quite adorable.

"It's nothing." She throws her head back and rolls her eyes.

"You're not getting off that easy. Tell me what's bothering you."

On cue, she stops her foot while her hands start gesturing wildly. "C'mon, Maura. Stop it."

"Jane." I respond firmly. "Tell me."

She shakes her head violently from side to side, sending her long hair flying around her head. "No." Stopping her antics, she fixes me with a direct stare. "Now is not the time, and this is not the place."

Her eyes tell me that whatever is hovering under the surface is a major annoyance, but nothing that needs to be forced out of her at this time. If I had to take a guess, which I hate to do even though I'm certain in this case that I would be correct, I'd guess it has something to do with Angela.

"Are you hungry?" She asks, clearly relieved that I've let the matter drop.

"Not particularly, but it would be nice to get some fresh air." I respond honestly. Though I've gotten very little actual work done today, perhaps a nice lunch will help clear my head and enable me to have a productive afternoon.

"Kay. I have to grab my coat call my mother back." Another eye roll. "Meet me upstairs in ten?" She smiles at me before reaching out to briefly give my shoulder a squeeze. I knew it had to do with Angela.

"Sure." I admire her athletic form as she saunters out of the morgue and heads toward the elevator.

Glancing at the clock, I see eight minutes and forty two seconds remaining until I should head to her floor. Maybe I should set myself a deadline, decide if I am going to try and find my birth mother or if I'm going to do nothing. If I decide to pursue finding her, I can give Jane the license plate number over lunch and by the time we return to the station the matter will be out of my hands and I can focus on my work.

Perfect. Eight minutes and thirty seconds left.

Frantic to adhere to my newly-set deadline, I embrace my fear and allow the what-ifs to run rampant through my mind. It's clearly possible that I will not like the person my mother is. It's also conceivable that she is nothing like the version of her I've imagined in my mind. She could regret trying to find me, she could try not to be found, and she could resent being tracked down. It's not out of the realm of possibility to imagine that perhaps she's only trying to find me because she needs something – she could be after my money or need a kidney.

What if she has trouble communicating with people and uses facts and logic in order to hide her true emotions the same way I do? Would we understand each other, or would Jane need to sit between the two of us to translate what we were trying to say? This thought actually causes me to crack a smile as I picture her deconstructing my sentences for my mother the way she does for everyone else.

Four minutes and fifty nine seconds left. I still have not made my decision.

How will I feel if Jane does everything in her power to find my mother and the meeting goes badly? If I'm hurt, Jane will blame herself for her part in it. I don't want that kind of responsibility for her and I can't ask her to do something for me that may result in any kind of turmoil for either one of us.

My birth parents made it very clear by sealing my adoption records that they did not want to be found. The only reason I found out who my real father was is because Collin was murdered. If I hadn't been the one examining his body, I'd still be in the dark about my birth parents. I asked Patrick Doyle about my mother and was told nothing other than he needed to keep her safe. As much as I'd like to find out who my real mother is, I also have to respect her decision to want or need to stay hidden.

I don't know why she has been following me, but perhaps it's not my place to find out.

I have made my decision with two minutes and fifty seconds left.

Numerology has been a practice that has existed since at least 400 A.D. St. Augustine of Hippo believed that numbers were the universal language given to humans from the deities as a confirmation of the truth.

Two minutes and fifty seconds equals one hundred seventy seconds. Breaking it down, one plus seven plus zero equals eight. In numerology, the number eight represents power and sacrifice. Holding this piece of paper with these silly little seven characters written by Jane's hand, I realize that I have all of the power I need. I have the power to make the best decision for everyone involved and am willing to sacrifice my desire to find my birth mother at this time.

I fold the paper in half and almost reverently begin to tear it into small pieces. I feel both a sense of deep relief and the ache of disappointment. The paper gently flutters down to the surface of my desk as I glance at the clock one last time.

One minute and four seconds left. I should leave to go and meet Jane now. Sliding out of my chair, I shoulder my bag and take my coat off of the hanger. Heading to the door, I realize that one minute and four seconds equals sixty four seconds. Six plus four equals two. One plus zero equals one. One represents the individual and also the aggressor. I furrow my brow as I puzzle the implication of that result.

I hear footsteps in the hall again and quicken my pace to the door, thinking Jane has come down to fetch me. However, the figure that approaches me is not Jane. In disbelief, I watch an older version of myself slowly walk into my office.

"Hello, Maura."


	8. Chapter 8

Her eyes are hazel; similar to mine, but darker in color with more complexity in the swirling depths of green and gold. My own eyes narrow as I try to memorize the exact color and pattern distinction of the eyes that have haunted me my entire life. I've spent so much of my childhood wondering what they were like. Would they sparkle when they saw me, filled with mother's pride? Or would they squint with discontent, like my adopted mother's cool gray eyes?

They give me no answers. Her eyes are wide with innocence, and I am not certain if it is genuine or feigned. Wearing a tight-lipped ghost of a smile, she appears the picture of calmness, rather than flushed or nervous as I thought she'd be.

Her eyes flick around my office, giving me the distinct impression that she is studying everything in my office instead of studying me. I assumed, if this moment ever happened, that I would be the focus of her attention. After all, I do seem to be the reason that she is here. I chose not to seek her, and forced myself to back off so she could pursue me at her desired time, which is obviously now.

Still, I use this moment to my advantage, and frantically try to absorb every bit of information made clear to me about her. My eyes trace the shape of her face and figure, her facial expressions, and the way the light from my office highlights her hair. As if I'm afraid she might disappear into thin air, I memorize everything about her.

My mother is a Caucasian female, most likely of Northern European descent. Her estimated age is between fifty-five and sixty years. She is approximately five feet and six inches tall, and of medium bone structure. Her hair is light brown with caramel highlights and has been freshly colored, her eyes are a medium-toned hazel, and her skin is fair.

She has aged well, with only minimal loss of skin elasticity around her jawline. Faint brown and tan macules dot her cheeks, barely visible below her layer of foundation. Translation: my mother had numerous freckles as a child that have faded with age.

Tasteful makeup finishes off her features, and she wears her shoulder-length hair down in loose waves. She wears some of the finest clothes Boston boutiques have to offer and her shoes are practically to die for; the newest high heel lace-up oxford from Reed Krakoff. Her appearance is one of luxury and wealth, and I can easily imagine her living in a five-story Back Bay brownstone.

Her hands are unusual; generally our hands show signs of age much faster than our faces, but my mother's hands are smooth and unlined. Either she has a fantastic beauty regimen that she performs religiously, or she has never worked a day in her life.

When her eyes finally return to mine, she opens her mouth to speak. The moment between seeing her mouth open and hearing her voice seems to last an eternity. What will she say to me? Will she tell me she is sorry for giving me up for adoption? Will she ask what my favorite color is?

Perhaps she'll take a more defensive route, and tell me forcefully why she made the decision she did. Tell me why it was the best for me. Explain why, after all these years, she was trying to find me and will finally tell me what all of this is about.

It's also possible that she's hear to ask for something – forgiveness, money (although, from her appearance, it certainly seems that she is doing fine), a relationship, or even an understanding of her actions.

"What does that mean?" She asks, gesturing her chin toward the small sign hanging neatly above my desk. Her voice is the rolling lilt of a cleverly-disguised accent, Welsh, perhaps?

My heart feels as heavy as a lead balloon. I don't know what I was hoping for, but it certainly wasn't this.

My throat dry, I swallow several times in attempt to regain my composure before I respond. If she can act calm and collected, so can I.

I try to hide my trembling hands by crossing my arms defensively in front of me. My voice comes out clearly with no hint of wavering, much to my pride. "Hic locus est ubi mors gaudet succurrere vitae." Pausing, I smile slightly before translating, "This is the place where death rejoices to help those who live."

My mother nods, her face impassive. She is incredibly difficult to read, and as well-versed as I am in psychology and neuroanatomical signs of facial expression, I am unable to clearly ascertain what she is thinking or feeling.

I know what I would like to tell her, but I am afraid that I don't have the courage. If Jane were only here, she'd be staring intently at me with her dark eyes fixated on mine. The eyes that have the power to reach deep inside my mind, flip the latches open to all the compartments in my brain and free all the contents, making me feel overwhelmed and disorganized but alive. If only she were here, I would speak freely to my mother, backed by the solid stability of Jane's presence. Whatever the outcome of our meeting, I would go home tonight safe, loved, and cherished.

I glance hopefully at the hallway, only to find it empty. It's been well past our ten minute meeting agreement. I realize that I was supposed to meet Jane upstairs, but shouldn't she be concerned about my disappearance now that we are precisely six minutes and seven seconds behind schedule?

_Angela._ I suddenly remember Jane's pressing phone call to her mother. She is consumed in whatever daily drama her own mother is conducting, and most likely lost track of time. I can picture her perfectly in my head, standing by the elevators with her bedraggled coat slung over one shoulder, the other half left dangling as its arm in use grips tightly at the cell phone pressed to Jane's ear. Her unused floppy sleeve swings freely, brushed by busy officers who pass closely, hoping to eavesdrop. Jane grits her teeth in attempt to not raise her voice, but is finding it difficult to not lose her temper. I can clearly see something else, a nagging influence in the back of her mind, wondering where the hell I am so she can have a valid excuse to hang up the phone. "Maura's here, Ma, and we have an important case to discuss. Love you too, bye." I imagine her rolling tone with it's almost Southern-lilt, so unusual for a native Bostonian, and how it always has the ability to calm me instantly.

My mother's eyes meet mine again, and we have a silent standoff. I hope my face is as unemotional and impassive as hers, and although there are so many things that I'd like to ask her, right now I can think of only one.

"Why have you been following me?" I keep my arms crossed.

She gives a slight shrug of her shoulders. "I'm leaving the country and wanted to see what you were like." Fingering the strap of her beautiful Brahmin bag, my mother continues. "Your father has spoken quite highly of you, and I thought to have a look for myself. He was right, you are quite impressive."

A quiet anger thaws the coolness I feel inside, and the molten hot rush of emotion encompass my body. "And you assumed that the best way to do so was to stalk me?"

She laughs a melodic, gentle twitter. "My dear girl, I wasn't trying to stalk you. I merely wanted to observe your actions without having a face to face meeting." Her eyebrows quirk. "I realized I was lax in being discreet, however, once Ms. Rizzoli noticed my presence. I made the rash decision to arrange a personal meeting." She smiles, and I'm struck at the uncanny resemblance we share.

"I preferred to meet you on my terms, however. Not in the parking lot of a gas station." Letting out a small huff, she clearly shows her displeasure. "And not by being investigated by Boston's finest. I am not one to be forced into doing anything by the authorities."

I suddenly feel like a chastised small child. "Why didn't you want to meet me?" The tremor, held down for longer than I felt possible, returns to my voice.

My mother smiles, and although not unkindly, it has a forced nature that she tries to hide. "I thought it cruel to meet you for the first time, only to leave the country immediately after. I apologize that it had to come to this."

"When are you leaving?" My tone is hollow.

"Tomorrow morning. I will not be returning to the States for some time, as I have some personal business to attend to overseas. However, I am glad to see that you are so accomplished. You are everything I had hoped you would be and I wish you nothing but the best." Smiling again, this time more genuine, I realize that this is her way of saying goodbye.

I always imagined that when I'd finally meet my birth mother that she would be this adorable older woman, heartbroken over the loss of her daughter. Upon meeting me, she'd gather me into a warm hug and apologize for ever giving me away. We would have an instant connection, a mother-daughter bond so strong that it could never be broken again. We'd spend all future holidays together, celebrate birthdays, and be a real family.

When I was younger, I couldn't have looked less like my adopted parents. I never had the experience of being in a grocery store and having a complete stranger say to my mother "I can see where your daughter got her beautiful eyes!"

In my mind, each time my birth mother and I went out to lunch, or shopping, or to the park, every waiter, waitress, salesperson, and random jogger would stop us to complement our similar appearance. The minute we stepped in a room, it would be clearly evident that we were cut from the same cloth. And I would finally have a place of belonging. No longer would I be the little girl longing for acceptance. I would never have to wonder again why my hair always got lighter in the winter, which is highly unusual. It does because my mother's does the same. I would have an ally, a friend, and a mentor.

Now, looking at my mother, I see none of that happening. A flood of emotion overtakes me, causing me to take a step back in surprise. I uncross my arms to give myself balance and come to rest against the solid surface of my desk. I am dangerously close to hyperventilating, brought on by the extreme emotional distress I am feeling.

_You've managed this long without her._ The thought breezes into my mind like a white flag. I surrender and accept the fact that sometimes, things just don't work out the way they should. I will never have the type of relationship with my birth mother that I have craved for so long. There is nothing I can do to change it. I raise my head to meet her eyes once more, and despite the unfortunateness of the situation, I have to admit that I like what I see.

My mother is bold, unafraid, regal, confident, and obviously able to get what she wants. I respect that, and am grateful that I share many of her qualities. However, I have something that she obviously doesn't have.

I have the ability to love. Not to just offer or receive superficial and temporary love, but love purely and strongly. I have the ability to love someone else more than I could ever love myself.

My mother is alone, and probably always has been. It is evident from her eyes – looking into them; I see what I used to see in mine on a daily basis before I met Jane. I'm sure that at one time my mother did love my father; perhaps they even still have some type of relationship. But it is nothing like the one I have, and for that, I feel sorry for her. I never thought it was possible to love myself and accept who I was until I met Jane. Seeing her love me through her eyes made me love myself. That is something that my mother clearly doesn't have, and has never experienced.

I pity her, as strange as it sounds. Wrapped in her luxurious lifestyle, she is so self-absorbed that it makes her happy to know that I am successful, rather than be happy to meet the person I actually am inside. She doesn't know me, and obviously doesn't care too. She is on the losing end of this situation.

I have always been incredibly self-reliant. Taught from an early age that I was the only one I could depend on, I learned how to take care of my needs and the ability to self-soothe whenever needed. I realize in this moment, staring at the mother I've always longed for, that she is not the mother I need.

She is waiting for me to say goodbye to her, but I already have. I never even said hello.

Although there is so much that I'd like to say, there is nothing else to discuss. I give her the only thing that I have left, complete acceptance of her actions.

"Good luck." My voice is stronger than I feel, and I give her a slight nod as I stand rooted against my desk, the cool metal a stark contrast to my flushed skin. Without another word, she turns and walks not only out of my office, but out of my life.

As she leaves, I pretend that I told her everything I wanted to tell her. Of how I've always felt unwanted, alone, and abandoned. How I never felt I'd amount to anything – because only someone completely unworthy is thrown away by their own birth parents.

From the time I was young, I hated myself. I despised everything about myself and everything that made me feel different. I loathed my unlovable soul, and in turn, became unable to love. I never attempted to facilitate a close relationship with my adopted parents, and perhaps my inherent cold and distant nature added fuel to the cold fire that was my childhood.

It wasn't until I met Jane and started our fledgling friendship that I realized the benefits of opening up to another person. Jane never judged me, and when she did poke fun at my unusual personality traits, it was always done in a kind manner. For the first time I opened up to someone, and after one "girl's night in" at her house, she knew much more about me than either of my fiancées.

The first time I felt a spark of something – at the time, I thought it was the early stages of influenza, was when she spent the first night at my house. Hoyt was haunting her again, and she sought the solace of my bed. She looked so lost, absentmindedly rubbing at her scares and staring at the ceiling. I was amazed at her ability to lie still, yet still have enough energy coursing through her to power National Grid itself. I've never seen anyone appear so strong yet vulnerable, and I felt dizzy. I was lying down next to her, nauseous and with my heart pounding.

When she jumped at hearing Bass thump around the kitchen, I knew in that moment that I would do anything in my power to protect her. I also knew that I wasn't coming down with the flu. My hand was on her arm and we were both breathing heavy, and I realized that I wanted to kiss her. She was beautiful and scared, and it took all of my self-control not to do something that she wasn't ready for. I've never said that I had great timing, and this was just another incidence.

Foolishly, I googled "symptoms of love" that next morning. I knew what they were, but I just needed to see it again to make myself believe that I may have actually felt a glimmer of the emotion that rules our society. It was terrifying and exciting all at once.

I need to see my detective. Flipping off the lights in my office, I close the door behind me and lock it shut. The corridor is empty, and I have the elevator to myself.

Arriving at Jane's floor, she is almost exactly where I pictured her, except her coat is fully on and she has her phone squished between her ear and her shoulder as she shoots crumpled up straw wrappers into the coffee station garbage can. As soon as she notices me, she gives me a wide smile. The sight of it washes away all of my recent trauma and I smile back, mine equally wide.

"Ma, gotta go. Nope, work stuff. No, I have to go NOW. Ok. You too. Call you later." She hangs up the phone and shoves it into her pocket. Rolling her eyes, she shakes her head slowly from side to side.

"My mother is trying to drive me insane."

"Be grateful that you have one." I tell her, my voice void of judgment or contempt.

"Good point." Jane responds. "Where would you like to go for lunch?"

I pause, trying to put into words what I need from her at this moment.

"Actually, what are the chances you could get out of here for the day? All of my cases can wait until tomorrow, and I'm feeling the need for some quiet time at home." My eyes practically plead with hers to comply, and as I watch her chocolate brown orbs glitter as they examine mine, I hope she will see how badly I need this.

"Um, sure. Why not." She says, grinning. "Let me go tell Frost I'm cashing in on that favor he owes me. I covered for his stupid ass a few weekends ago when his girlfriend came into town." Giving my arm a slight squeeze, she jogs over to Frost's desk to relay the message.

Watching her leave I am content in the fact that I know she will always return. I am strangely calm as I realize that there are two constants I can rely on, my self-resilience, and Jane's love. My intuition tells me these are the only things I will ever need.

I no longer feel "double broken." I have accepted my past as something I cannot change, and instead of focusing on it and allowing it to consume me, I will instead focus on the future and the happiness within my reach. Ernest Hemingway once wrote that "the world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong in the broken places."

I have been broken so many times, that my strength is overwhelming. I bask in it as I watch Jane walk toward me, a triumphant gleam in her eye as Frost sits dejectedly in his chair. My shoulders squared and head high; I hit the elevator button and boldly take Jane's hand in mine as she reaches my side. She looks at me, surprised, and then down at our clasped hands. Giving her a beaming smile, we step in the elevator together and head home.

* * *

_Thank you to all who have been following my work! Your reviews have been wonderful! I do have plans to write a third story in this series…..make sure you add me to your author alerts to receive updates. I have also had a request to write a Jane-themed story….which will probably be very difficult for me as I don't "get her" like I do Maura. But I am willing to give it a shot! Thanks for reading. _


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